


Turned the Corner, and I'm Doin' Fine

by APgeeksout



Series: In Which I am a Dork (about the Kentucky Derby) [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday, Gambling, Horse Racing, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-02
Updated: 2010-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:32:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein I pretend Season 5 ends happily, and in ample time to celebrate Sam's birthday and the Kentucky Derby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turned the Corner, and I'm Doin' Fine

**Author's Note:**

> Title snagged from the Randy Newman version of "My Old Kentucky Home".

"Where did you say we’re going again?” Sam asked, glancing idly at the atlas lying open across his knees. 

Dean took in his profile for a long moment.  After some sleep and a few good meals Sam looked better than he had in months, maybe longer.  Dean could almost look at him again without the almost overpowering urge to hug him.  Again.  Some more.  Sam had been indulgent so far, returning each unexpected embrace with a fierceness that stole his breath, but eventually the haze of _holy-shit-we-really-did-this_ was going to burn off and he was going to embarrass them both with this whole cuddly routine. 

 “I didn’t.  That’s for me to know and you to work out with your giant geek brain,” he answered, taking one hand off the wheel to ruffle his brother’s hair.

They’d been in Maryland for four days.  At first, they were just too exhausted, too relieved, to do much more than trade giddy smiles and fall into bed for 20 hours.  Then, it had seemed important to stick around, keep an eye on things, make sure Lucifer wasn’t picking the lock on his cage door.  But they hadn’t caught wind of a single demonic omen or breaking seal or shitstorm straight out of Revelation, and Dean was beginning to suspect that they probably just didn’t know what to do without a fight.

He decided that the first step was just to get moving again, maybe to celebrate.  And if it also happened to be the day before his little brother’s birthday, so much the awesomer.   

Sam had given up on the badgering and the map, apparently content to sprawl across the bench seat and read the signs along I-95 as they blew past. He took in a sharp breath as the first signs for the exit Dean wanted came into view.  “Are we going to Pimlico?” he asked, the note of hope in his tone so unfamiliar, so welcome, that Dean found his throat tight around his answer. 

“Yeah.  Happy birthday, kiddo.  We’re a couple weeks early for the big party here, but I didn’t think even I could get us all the way to Churchill Downs before post time.” 

“Thanks, Dean.”  He lapsed into a long silence that Dean was tempted to break before he softly offered, “You know, I watched the Derby from the infield once.”

“Stanford?” Dean asked, knowing that those three Saturdays in May were the only times Sam might have watched the race at someone else’s side.  “Which year?”

“Smarty Jones.  Jess had family in Louisville, and she knew the race meant something to me.  Even though I never told her why.  She wore this huge, pink hat,” he gestured broadly in the passenger seat, the regret melting out of his expression as he remembered “with all these ribbons and feathers.  It was so big she clipped it with the car door as we were leaving.”

Dean watched his brother’s face and the road in equal measures as Sam expanded on his topic, talking about the race itself. heard more than seen from within the press of the crowd, the way Jess’s older sister kept not-so-subtly interrogating him, how happy he’d been when she agreed right there in the grass that they should move in together after finals.  Dean chimed in with laughter in the appropriate places, but didn’t ask questions or offer any smartass commentary, reluctant to break whatever spell had Sam telling these stories.  Offering parts of himself – Sam, the devoted boyfriend; Sam, the carefree 20 year-old - Dean had never known firsthand. 

“Did you watch the race that year?” Sam asked suddenly. 

Dean tucked the Impala into a parking space and took a breath before finding his answer.  “’Course I did.  Dad even watched it with me.”  They were out of the car and halfway across the parking lot before he added, “I mean, he was in traction and on so many painkillers that I don’t think he was seeing the same race as me, but still…”  Once he would probably have tried to shield Sam from that part of the story, but suddenly, it didn’t seem worthy of secrecy anymore, and his version of 2004’s Derby carried them inside and to a little table in the noisy clubhouse bar.   

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that rain was biblical,” Dean said, tipping his head toward the simulcast screen where Gary Stevens and Bob Costas and a whole host of officials and handicappers and trainers were trying to stay dry, and taking turns weighing in on the sloppy track and the soggy infield and which horses might turn out to be good mudders. 

Sam groaned, “Too soon, dude.” 

Dean shrugged.  If he didn’t make the joke, who would? “Who do like, professor?” he asked, taking the corner of the racing form and jostling it across the surface of the table in front of his brother.  He smiled beatifically at the baleful look Sam shot him before he reclaimed the newsprint pages. 

“I’m looking at Devil May Care.  Maybe this is Todd Pletcher’s year.” 

“Plus, she’s the only filly in the field, and you girls have to stick together, right?” 

Sam rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twisted into a smile, “Do I even have to ask who you’re picking?”

“Well, Dean’s Kitten is going to win, clearly.  Might do an exacta with Backtalk.”

 “Naturally,” Sam said, “You do realize they’re both running at, like, 22 or 23 to 1, right?”

 “Yeah?”  He paused, let his hand fall on Sam’s arm and give his wrist a gentle squeeze as he added, “Maybe I believe in longshots these days.”

 Sam’s expression softened, and Dean expected him to answer with another of the touchy-feely sentiments they couldn’t seem to stop trading since they’d headed off the end of the world and lived to give each other shit about it.  Instead, his smile transformed into a silent gasp of surprise as his eyes cut away to something just over Dean’s left shoulder. 

He turned to follow the line of his brother’s gaze, fingers tightening around Sam’s arm as he registered the man standing in the middle of the barroom.  There was no tie, loosened or otherwise, and the battered trenchcoat was nowhere to be seen.  But the face was familiar, even trying on a wry smile for size, instead of the frustration Dean was used to putting there.

“Cas?” he asked, surprised to find his voice catching in his throat.  He rose, felt Sam do the same behind him.  “That really you?”

“It is perhaps more ‘me’ than ever,” he said.  “Jimmy’s soul has been freed.  It is lonelier than I anticipated, being here,” he made a gesture that took in the room, his own body, “without him.” 

Dean closed the distance between them and pulled Castiel into his arms.  Maybe one day he’d be able to have a fucking conversation without it descending into the kind of chick flick moment he used to sneer at, but for now, he just held on and said, “It’s good to have you back, man.” 

“This is a hug that means ‘welcome back’, then?” Cas asked, patting his back sort of experimentally.  “Jimmy used to help me understand these things.” 

“That’s right.  It also means ‘I’m sorry’, because I am.  I know I let you down before Van Nuys.”  It also meant ‘I missed you’ and ‘Thank you for saving me. Again’ and ‘Please stay’ and maybe a few other things Dean wasn’t ready to put into words yet.  Not even in his own head. 

“You did hurt me,” he admitted, the words coming in a soft breath against Dean’s ear, “but I have seen everything that came after.  You owe me nothing more.”

Dean gave him a quick, tight squeeze, then released him, turning to include Sam in the reunion.  Sam fixed him with a gentle, knowing look before he too folded Cas in his arms.                

“What happened to you?” Sam asked, pulling away to examine the changes in their friend. “How are you here?”

“You happened.  The both of you.  When you saved the Earth, Our Father returned home.  My grace is restored,” his whole expression brightened, though his smile dimmed as he continued.  “Communion with my sisters and brothers is less satisfying than I remember.  So many remain suspicious and resentful and ashamed.  I believe my presence makes many of them uncomfortable.”    

“Then maybe you should just commune with us for a while,” Sam said, resting his hand on Cas’s shoulder. 

“I would like that,” he said.  “I would like that very much.”

“Mint juleps all around, then,” Dean pronounced.  “Sammy, help the man pick a trifecta while I’m at the bar.” 

Minutes later, he carried a tray loaded with their drinks and a plate of chili-cheese fries back toward the table, where his brother and his angel were studiously examining the racing form, their dark heads bent over the pages, Sam pointing at some probably meaningless statistic.  Castiel said something.  Dean was still too far away to make out his words, but he had no trouble picking out Sam’s answering laughter, loud and deep and genuine.  His family was always going to be better company than a bunch of sulky angels.   

“So, Cas,” he said, distributing the cold drinks, “Heaven have any insight on when we might see another Triple Crown?”

“You seek a prophecy?  I thought Dean Winchester did not believe in destiny.”

“Hell, man, I don’t believe in anyone or anything not sitting at this table.”

Sam smiled, “So it’s pretty much just angels, bourbon, and fluorescent cheese sauce?”

He raised his cup, “Add ‘you and me’ to the list, and I’ll drink to that.”

“To faith in each other,” Cas pronounced solemnly, lifting his own cup. “And to SuperSaver’s victory in this race.” 

 

 

 


End file.
